


Moirai

by LittleLark



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, How Do I Tag, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-18 05:24:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7301209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLark/pseuds/LittleLark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'It would be poetic if it wasn't so completely shit and Michael felt like his lungs were being sucked out through his ribcage and then the stars were falling from the horizon down to the black concrete of his Mum's driveway...'  </p>
<p>Michael held constellations in his palm and there were times he wished he didn't love Luke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there, 
> 
> I'm a newbie, please be gentle with me.  
> Thank you for reading!

 

Michael was alone when it happened.

The moment caught him off guard, stunned to breathlessness as he stood frozen in front of the wide bathroom mirror with his toothbrush hanging gracelessly from his mouth. He stared down at the sliver of pale skin where his palm met his wrist and blinked, trying to push the blurriness out of his eyes, and racked his brain for a recollection of the markings on his skin in some distant moment before now.

With the thumb of his left hand he pressed gingerly against the smattering of dark shapes that had apparently appeared inked into his skin overnight, maybe it was just some weird bruising like the uneven gravel rash he'd get as a kid. But there was no dull or aching pain beneath Michael's fingertip, only the sharp bite of his nail leaving a small crescent moon overtop his mark as he continued to press down hard. The swing of vertigo was as severe as it was unexpected when it hit, Michael's toothbrush clattering loudly against the sink as he slid like sand to the cold tile floor of his mother's bathroom. He sat there long after the sun reached the middle of the sky with his head hanging between his knees and a vice-like grip on his wrist, hard enough to bruise for real this time. The phone taunted him with its shrill ringing somewhere beyond the bathroom door, but Michael feared throwing up all over the clean white tiles if he moved. 

Michael had hoped that he was an exception. A lucky unlucky one. He'd heard the horror stories often enough, of those who were born with soulmarks on their skin, or the children who gained them early on. The ideologies had been steadily shovelled down his throat his whole life; romanticised and overexposed notions of destiny and Soulmates that the media lapped up. Those who bought into the bullshit fawned, doe-eyed, over those who got their marks young. It was rarely spoken of that a person could gain their mark but never find its partner, that connections could span half the globe or even decades with no hope in Hell. Michael didn't buy it; a girl he used to know got her mark early, met her soulmate early, and had lost him soon after. She had once called the mark spanning the width of her shoulder blade a soul scar, now that she was alone. After that, his mind was made up. A _scar_ sounded more fitting, so Michael had coined the term for himself, deciding that he didn't need another scar to add to his collection of scraped knees and elbows.

And yet here he was, twenty years old and barely breathing over a little mark on his wrist; a pattern of stars, tiny dots settling out a little galaxy along his skin. He didn't realise what he'd done until the blood began to congeal under his fingernails, coating him in rust and dripping sluggishly down his forearm. This was going to wreck everything. There was a boy with city light eyes and a barbed wire mouth that twisted around the word 'scar' and he was all at once fierce and quiet and abrasive and soft. A boy whose mind bubbled like soap out of his body. The boy's hands were perpetually cold and Michael would let him put his frozen fingers under the cuffs of his sleeves to keep warm, but now Michael had galaxy scars on the edge of his palm that he couldn't scratch out.

 

*******


	2. Chapter 2

It took Michael a while to realise someone was talking to him. He'd long since given up trying to be sociable, opting to sulk on the porch step and watch people from his classes slowly get drunk.

He tapped an empty beer bottle against his knee, having hurriedly tipped the remnants of the drink down his throat to avoid looking at how Luke was currently wrapped around a pretty girl from the year below them who giggled every time Luke whispered something in her ear. A face framed by long, honey-blonde hair hooked its way into Michael's line of sight, smoky grey eyes slightly bloodshot and unfocused. Michael leaned back a little to take Geordie's face in, trying not to bristle at the drunken, over-exaggerated concern that crinkled her forehead a little.

"Let's go home, I'm too drunk." She said; a flash of relief loosened Michael's fingers enough for her to move the bottle to the ground. She was giving him a way out, he realised, with impeccable timing as usual. He just nodded, looking back to Luke quickly before beginning to scrape himself up off the concrete.

Luke was already looking his way, the smirk curling his lips making a prickling swoop of insecurity settle in Michael's stomach.

"Ah, the life of the party can't leave so early, huh Mikey?" Luke said, humour lightly buoying his voice somewhere in the middle. The subtle arch of his eyebrow lit Michael's temper like a struck match.

"Fuck off, Hemmings." He spat in Luke's general direction, too afraid to look because his voice was flaking like damp paint. The phrase is a familiar one, overused since the first time it left his mouth back when a small boy with light hair and sea blue eyes squirmed his way into Michael's friendship group and became a permanent fixture in Michael's best friend's computer chair one summer.

At fourteen years old, Michael had hated how timid Luke was in the face of Michael's boisterous volume, how careful and quiet he was and how he never took the last slice of pizza. He'd hated how Calum had needed to practically shove the pizza down Luke's throat before he'd accepted, nibbling at it like some tiny bird with his shoulders drawn almost up to his ears. Michael'd hated how Calum had taken pity on the outcast and invited him to play FIFA without telling Michael first because - 'I know what you're like, Mikey. He's kind of cool - just don't be a dick, okay?' He'd hated how Calum became careful and gave Michael loaded looks whenever he rolled his eyes or scoffed low in his throat. And Michael had hated how he had to pretend not to see the hurt that flickered across the freckled skin of Luke's face to settle in the corners of his eyes. 

Still, Michael hated that, in the dark of Calum's bedroom, with Luke's head pillowed in the dip between Michael's collarbone and chest, Michael had wondered breathlessly if he'd ever have a soulmark. Luke was weighing soft and heavy on Michael's body, his blonde hair scratching the skin of his throat.

"Well, if you don't," he mumbled, mouth clicking softly around the words, "I'll be your soulmate."

Michael had hated even more what he said next. Calum had gone suspiciously quiet, though Michael felt his dark eyes on him, felt like his chest had fallen through the air-bed he and Luke shared.

"Fuck off, Hemmings. Who the hell would wanna be stuck with you?"

And that had been all it had taken to make Luke silent. To make him slide slowly off of Michael's shoulder and squash himself as far over his side of the double mattress as his long limbs would allow. It had been all it had taken to make sure Michael barely got a wink of sleep that night, hyperaware of Calum's tiny sigh before he curled up in his own bed and promptly fell asleep.

Luke didn't speak to him for a week.

Like he had before Luke came along, Michael found solace in playing video games alone every free hour he had, holed up in his bedroom with the curtains drawn until his Mum forced him out on day ten. So he'd gone to Luke's armed with a backpack filled with bags of Doritos and all the games he knew Luke had been dying to try out. He'd tried not to bolt as soon as Luke answered the door dressed in a Tshirt and boxers and had wordlessly held the open backpack to show Luke the contents; relief washed through him, hot and viscous, when Luke simply rolled his eyes and made his way to the stairs with a grunted "c'mon."

The furthest Michael got to explaining himself that night was a tiny "sorry I was a dick." Luke had shrugged it off, curled up on his single bed like a pretzel with myopic focus on the screen and games console in a death grip. Michael didn't get time to explain the way his chest had been filled with stones all week and every time he really thought about soulmarks his hands would shake just the tiniest bit.

He didn't mention how he woke with Luke's name on silent lips and his hand disappearing in the waistband of the boxers he slept in.

 

Michael didn't stick around to see Luke's reaction, instead letting Geordie sling her arm through his and weave her way back into the street outside. Wrist prickling and head thick with what he could only assume was cotton wool, he let her babble drunkenly as she steered them home through empty, quiet streets and focused on one foot in front of the other.

Geordie swallowed thickly and turned side-on to look at him. "Luke was just drunk, you know." She said quietly, and fumbled inside her handbag before pulling out a slightly crumpled cigarette.

"Yeah, I know." He replied. Other words were stuck in his chest, like how Luke was hot and cold like this all the time, liked to make pretty girls laugh at parties even though he stole his brother's alcohol and liked to lick his way into Michael's mouth with whiskey on his lips when no one else was around. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there,
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope this was okay. I'm so sorry it's taken so long for me to update. 
> 
> Please feel free to leave any comments - they make me smile!


	3. Chapter 3

Luke Hemmings was standing at Michael's front door. Luke Hemmings was hammered out of his mind.

He was barely holding himself up, leaning heavily against the porch wall by the time Michael opened the door to stop the hammering of Luke's fist against it from reverberating through the house. He let himself take Luke in, cataloguing bright, bloodshot eyes and cheeks flushed with something other than cold, the way his dark shirt was a little crumpled, hanging unevenly on his shoulders where it was pulled against the brick. He still had sand on his shoes, clinging to the valleys between his shoelaces, and Michael wondered if it was clinging to the back of his jeans as well from when he was slumped in the sand with that girl draped over him.

"Michael," Luke slurred, his speech slow and loud, sticking like toffee to the roof of his mouth as he made an aborted move towards Michael, twisting suddenly to catch himself with his back against the wall, more off balance than Michael had ever seen him. Stomach sinking like lead, Michael scrabbled for solid ground as his wrist tingled. 

"Fuck, Hemmings," he whispered, searching for distance in unfamiliarity. "How much did you drink?"

Luke frowned, a tiny crease that formed between his eyebrows and pulled the corners of his lips down as he thought. Not that he could see in this light, but Michael wondered if a smear of lipgloss still clung to Luke's lips, too. 

"A little," Luke replied, "I dunno, enough." 

He extended an arm and reached it vaguely in Michael's direction, swaying just enough that Michael reached out to pull him upright. He rolled his eyes, glancing up to the open doorway as Luke's clammy fingers inched up his forearm.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go, Luke was supposed to stay at that party and leave Michael to his self-pity and the previously unopened bottle of scotch in his parents' cabinet. Then, after nursing unnecessary hangovers, he and Luke would pretend that neither could remember much of the weekend and Michael could bury that sour taste left in the back of his throat until next time. 

"Where'd you go, anyway?" Luke mumbled.

Michael frowned, "I'm right here."

Luke just hummed low in his throat as Michael steered him gently over the doorstep and into the house.

It took longer than necessary for Michael to get Luke upstairs with his insistence on peeling his clothes off as they staggered on through, leaving his shoes and shirt scattered like breadcrumbs behind them. 

Depositing Luke gracelessly on his bed, Michael grabbed the empty glass on his nightstand to fill in the bathroom with numb fingers. His movements felt heavy and his tipsy mind felt staticky, like his ears were covered, but at least he could pull his socks off without falling off the bed - if the low thump and muffled curses from the other room were anything to go by. 

When he entered his bedroom, Luke was already lying face down, one sock still on, its partner abandoned near the foot of the bed. The TV played on quietly, casting a faint blue glow along Luke's cheek and forehead. He blinked bleary eyes open as Michael set the glass down, scrunching his nose up in a way that fanned his skin across his face like cracked ice. 

"M' head hurts." He groaned, lifting a hand to paw through his rain-damp hair, looking at Michael. 

"You should drink this," he instructed, holding the glass of water out, "then get some sleep." 

Luke sat up then, suddenly alert but still unsteady. 

"No. I wanted - I came to talk to you." He held his gaze until Michael looked away to where the condensation slid down the glass to rest under his fingertips. Luke made half a move towards gripping Michael's arm, apparently unhappy to have lost his attention. 

Although Michael was sure his wrist was covered, the panic at having Luke close made him dizzy. He was over the other side of the bed in a flash, hastily pulling the blinds shut as if one of the neighbours might see the inside of his wrist. 

Luke flopped back on the bed. "Wanted to talk to you." He repeated. 

Michael wanted out, he wanted out, he wanted Luke to stop talking, he wanted - 

"Where did you go tonight?" 

"What do you mean? I walked Geordie home." Michael breathed, blinking as he tried to catch up, "You saw me leave. Or did you forget while you sucked the face off that girl?" 

Luke frowned. His mouth flopped open and closed a few times before he seemed to settle on what to say; Michael didn't miss how his eyes flicked towards the door.

"I didn't - we didn't do anything. That's what I wanted to talk to you about." 

Michael really didn't want to talk about her, or anything, really. His head was still comfortably fuzzy with drunken sluggishness and he just wanted Luke to shut up so he could sleep all of a sudden, any earlier adrenaline burned clean away. 

"Okay," he said, "just go to sleep, Luke." 

"Alright, but listen. She's got a soul scar anyway." Michael tried not to cringe at the spiteful twist of Luke's tongue around the words, watching as Luke focused on speaking clearly, brows furrowed and lips curling carefully as he spoke. 

"So you bailed as soon as you saw her mark?" 

Luke looked confused. With fumbling hands he pulled Michael down to the mattress. This close in the semi-darkness Michael could just make out how bloodshot and dropping his eyes were. 

Luke's throat crinkled as he swallowed. "Yeah. She has a soul scar. Nothing happened." 

Something small and frightening flared in Michaels chest. He wanted to finish that bottle of scotch he'd started. He wanted to scratch his wrists and wash his hands until they bled. He wanted to pull his skin off and step out of it. 

Instead, Michael let Luke pull him further down on the bed, burying himself under the covers but turning so all Luke could see was his back. 

"Really," Luke whispered, "you know I wouldn't try anything with someone with a soul scar."

Maybe Luke hadn't meant it in the way it had been spoken, but every vertebrae in Michael's back seemed to freeze one by one as he listened, immobile as if his body had locked itself to his bed. His stomach clenching and his chest plummeting through his body and the mattress to land bloody on the carpet, Michael listened. 

"Okay, Luke."

He could hear Luke's throat click as he swallowed, could feel the heat of him as he carefully pressed himself into Michael's shoulder blades and he felt the hesitation in the breath Luke took before he spoke. 

"Don't be mad at me."

"I'm not. "

"Don't lie," Luke breathed. He tucked his head, pressing his lips into the skin of Michael's neck, "and don't be mad."

He kissed Michael's skin again, just below his jaw, and again a little further over, and again. Each little pull of his mouth on the pale skin skittered out along Michael's spine up the base of his skull. 

"Don't be mad at me."

"You're drunk, Luke." Michael replied. 

"So are you."

Michael just hummed, forgetting his point as Luke sucked a bruise into his throat, into his collar bone, kissed along his jaw. There was a sentence on the tip of Michael's tongue, a thought at the back of his mind disappearing like mist. 

Luke leant up over his body and was licking the corner of Michael's lips, gathering the whiskey lingering there before he licked slowly into Michael's mouth. 

Michael's thoughts scattered like insects, too fast for him to grasp. He had wanted to say something, he needed Luke to understand something but he couldn't remember and Luke was right there and Michael wanted, wanted, wanted. 

It wasn't until after he'd let Luke slip his ripped Tshirt over his shoulders and push his jeans down his thighs, sweat-slick body pressed down into the sheets and breathing Luke in that Michael had space to think. 

It wasn't until after Luke's lips had bruised up and down his throat, his chest, along the line of his spine, had scratched his nails along Michael's sides, reached down to cup Michael and tease him until he sobbed Luke's name in breathless little pants, that Michael realised what he had done. 

It wasn't until after, when he woke to Luke still sound asleep, half on Michael's stomach and half on the bed. Reaching up tentatively to brush hair from where it hung low over Luke's eyes, he caught sight of the speckled pattern over his wrist, burning like a brand on the papery, pale skin. The image of it sitting there pulled on the weight in Michael's chest as his pulse beat too quickly in his ears, and the desire to pull the covers up and hide here in the dark fabric of his bed swept him up. 

"Luke," he said, gently shaking his freckled shoulder. "Luke, you gotta get up."

Luke's eyes peeked open and his tousled head shot up with a sleepy frown. He simply stared at Michael for a moment, then down at the bed and back again. There was a crease in his skin from where the pillow had pressed while he slept and his flushed skin highlighted the bruises on his collarbone. 

"What?"

"You have to go." Michael swallowed past the tightness in his throat, hoping he just sounded tired. "My Mum'll be back soon."

Luke's gaze travelled down Michael's chest and up to his face. He frowned again, looking at Michael a little strangely. 

"Okay." He said, sighing as he scrambled out the mess of sheets to grab his jeans from the floor. Michael sat upright in his bed, silently watching him buckle the belt and pull on last night's socks. 

"You left your shirt downstairs." He said as Luke searched the room. Luke smirked as he rounded the doorway to the hall, leaving Michael to pad achingly out to the shower, watching as it sputtered to life. 

Luke called his name as he came back down the hall, poking his head round the door to find Michael looking blankly at the foggy bathroom mirror. 

"You got any aspirin? My head's killing me."

Michael reached numbly into the cabinet to chuck the little glass bottle in Luke's direction, barely glancing at anything but the corner of the mirror. He heard Luke shake the tablets into his palm before placing the bottle on the side of the sink. His wrist ached. 

Luke hooked his chin over Michael's shoulder, pressing his lips against the underside of Michael's jaw so softly he might not have meant it. 

"I'll see you later, Mikey, yeah?"

Michael's tongue was trapped on the roof of his mouth but he managed to duck his head in a nod as he felt Luke retreat back to the hall. He didn't look up as Luke thundered down the stairs, but stumbled sideways to dry-heave over the toilet as the latch on the door clicked shut.

His body strained as he retched, tears slipping down his cheeks as he gasped for air. When he could stand, Michael shut the shower off and wandered like a condemned man to the safety of his bed with a sucking sensation deep in his chest, fingertips aching to peel off his skin for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that happened...  
> Sorry it's been so long. Thank you for reading.   
> Feel free to leave any comments.


	4. Chapter 4

Luke chose not to tell Michael that he was leaving for the vibrant streets of Melbourne until he only had three weeks left in Sydney. 

He threw the news over his shoulder recklessly, like a rebel throwing a grenade and not like he was propped up half naked on the battered couch in the Clifford's basement. Michael felt the ground give way with the impact, swallowing dryly and parroting Luke's words back at him. 

Luke grinned, "Mum's friend needs a bartender, said he'd let me have the live act slot a few nights a week too."

The blood drained drop by drop down to Michael's feet. "That's..." He hesitated, tongue feeling heavy in his mouth. "Great, Luke... That's great."

"You'll have to come visit once I'm settled in my new place." Luke's eyes were glowing like neon lights, illuminated by the sickly backlight of the TV. Michael wanted to be as excited as Luke looked at the prospect but he just felt tired. 

Some 80s movie Michael couldn't remember the name of played on silently. He watched breathlessly as Luke's eyes roamed the walls of peeling posters and unstuck photographs, fragments of his younger teenage self that Michael was yet to find the energy to take down. When Luke brought his gaze to lock sleepily on Michael's lips, panic curled low in his chest. 

"Kinda wish I could stay here with you forever though,"

And just like that, Michael wished he didn't love Luke, because loving him hurt. Because Luke couldn't stay. Blind to the pale gaze that followed him, Michael said nothing as he rolled onto his side, slipping off the sofa and climbing up the stairs of his basement. He made it out onto his driveway before he really registered moving. Stepping out into the cold night was little help; dragging heavy, humid air into frigid lungs only made his head spin. The wind bit into the bones of his fingers where they were clenched white-knuckled around the hem of his shirt. 

"Mikey?"

Suddenly, calloused fingers chased the sweat running down the back of his neck, featherlight sweeps of fingerprints dipping down the collar to pool at the top of his spine. It made Michael want to gag.

"What's wrong?" Luke asked. 

It was so painfully unfair that Luke was here, blasting nirvana too loud over shitty speakers and pressing bruises with his fingers into Michael's ribs when he gasped his name against kiss-bitten lips, curses echoing in the dip of Luke's collarbone, and yet Luke's mind was already hundreds of miles away. It was so unfair that Luke kept chasing him, cloaking whispered doubts under honeyed touches of his lips, kept on bringing Michael back only to push him back out of orbit with sticky-sweet words. 

But Michael just whispered, "I'll miss you. When you go." 

Luke made an unhappy noise in his throat and moved to rest his cold hands on Michael's hips beneath the hem of his shirt. 

"Come with me, then." He murmured, the words scratching halfway up his throat.

"No."

No because Michael loved Luke and no because Michael was a deadweight strapped to Luke's ankles and Ash would be leaving for New Zealand soon and Calum was already gone. Soon Luke would be in Melbourne and Michael would be stuck suffocating in Sydney. 

It would be poetic if it wasn't so completely shit and Michael felt like his lungs were being sucked out through his ribcage and then the stars were falling from the horizon down to the black concrete of his Mum's driveway and - 

Oh. 

Michael might have be dying. 

The world in front of him tilted further, beating vividly in time with the pulse hammering in his ears. His hazy mind registered telling Luke that he couldn't breathe, that he was going to throw up, and suddenly the stars were replaced by Luke's pastel eyes filling his vision.

"Breathe, Mikey. You gotta breathe for me." 

Luke slung a long arm across Michael's back to pull him upright from where he'd slumped down onto the concrete in a desperate attempt to get to where the air was thinner. Michael pressed both wrists close to his stomach as his arms shook and tried pulling in shallow breaths. 

Luke pushed Michael's hair away from his clammy forehead and Michael cringed back like it burned, feeling overexposed and suffocated. 

"Shhh," Luke whispered, rubbing his hands up and down his back. "Let's get you back inside yeah? You'll be okay."

Michael spent twenty minutes with tears on his flushed cheeks, head pillowed in Luke's lap and surrounded by blankets on the couch back in the basement. Anxiety tingled like electric charges in his fingertips, spreading to curl its tendrils around his chest whenever his breathing spiked. Luke just wrapped him up in his arms, using a cold cloth from the bathroom to press against his face intermittently. He hummed a tune that Michael didn't know into the darkness, a lighthouse on the rocky shore. 

As Luke brought his hand around to pull Michael's hair from his face, Michael caught sight of the clean expanse of skin on his wrist, unmarked and pale. He tried to remember all the parts of Luke he'd seen, searching for any scars he hadn't noticed, any constellations drawn like paint spatters along his skin. There wasn't anything that came to mind; Luke would have told him if he was marked. Luke would have pulled the world down in retaliation. 

"You doing alright, Mikey?"

No, not at all. He needed a chance at distraction from the stones in his chest and the swooping sensation of falling that sat high in his stomach. He needed his wrist to stop burning and his fingers to stop twitching towards his fragile skin. He was a gambler and Luke was the ace. 

His hand dragged gently up Luke's thigh to palm him through his jeans as he pulled himself upright. Luke's breath hissed between his teeth and he pushed up into Michael's hand, pressing his fingers into Michael's ribs when he nipped at his collarbone. 

"Stay," Michael murmured, the sound lost against Luke's chest. 

Luke kept up a steady chant of 'Mikey, Mikey,' as Michael sucked bruises into his skin and continued to jerk him off. To answer Luke's strained moan, he hastily undid Luke's jeans, tapping his hip so he could pull them down far enough to get inside his underwear and fully wrap his hand around him. 

He licked his way into Luke's mouth to taste him, pleasure coiling low in his stomach when Luke lazily ground the heel of his hand against Michael's crotch as he moaned low in his throat. Michael took it slow, twisting his hand just the way he knew Luke liked, pressing his thumb in just the right place when Luke swore into Michael's throat and dragged his teeth along the flesh. 

Hips bucking up into Michael's fist, Luke started to whimper, a delicious flush drawn along his pale skin as Michael hooked his fingers around his T-shirt to pull it off and toss it to the floor. He pressed his face into Luke's shoulder as he changed the tempo and dragged a cry from Luke's mouth, shamelessly grinding against his thigh. Breath heaving and legs shaking, he continued to mark up Luke's throat, exchanging messy kisses when Luke pulled Michael's face up to his. 

Michael watched Luke as he frowned, gasping for air with his lower lip clasped between his teeth. He scrunched his face up a little to hide his ocean eyes when Michael gripped his cock and slowly drew his hand up, twisting his wrist slowly enough at the tip that Luke's mouth popped open with a groan that had Michael pressing himself harder into him. 

Luke sighed, "Like that," and leaned forward to lick a stripe up to Michael's ear. "Like that, babe"

Michael was burning, setting Luke on fire as he sped up, too caught up in the way Luke breathlessly moved to cup him through his jeans again. His brain short-fused into Luke Luke Luke as he stroked his dick faster. 

"Fuck," he swore, "gonna come for me baby?" He gave his hand one final twist and Luke was bucking up frantically, mouth hanging open as he sobbed and finally spilled onto Michael's hand, covering his scarred wrist and his own stomach as he shook in the aftershocks. 

No sooner had Michael lazily wiped his hand on his jeans that Luke flipped him over so roughly that he smacked his head on the armrest, letting Luke blanket his body with his own, smiling into Michael's throat as he shoved his hand down Michael's pants. 

"My turn, Mikey." He said, making him shiver, full bodied. "Gonna make you feel good." 

 

***

Too tired and limbless to move, Michael fell asleep that night with the feeling of Luke's fingers against his wrist.

"Michael, what's this?" He heard whispered in his ear, but with Luke's warm body wrapped around his, sleep had already captured him before he thought to care. 

By the time Michael wandered out of the basement in the morning with his heart clawing up his throat, Luke was already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for depictions of self harm. Please don't read this if you don't feel you can.

The dial tone kept ringing out from the phone propped up on Michael's chest. He stared at it sleepily, his brain fuzzy with its need for sleep or caffeine as he swore internally at Calum for not answering quickly. Suddenly, Calum's bright face entered the screen, close enough that he appeared cross-eyed for a second before adjusting.

"Mike!" He yelled through the phone, grinning broadly with cheeks flushed pink beneath his dark skin. Somewhere beyond the frame, voices laughed out at something Michael didn't catch; he tried to ignore the irrational pang of jealously over Calum having fun with someone other than him.

"Hey, Cal," he said, "you busy?"

Calum scrunched his nose up before shaking his head. "Nah, just got the boys over for a drink."

The boys. Michael had no idea who they were. 'The boys' weren't him or Ashton or Luke, so who were they? Not that it mattered anyway, but it still stung to know that Calum's social group no longer consisted of who it used to, with thousands of miles spanning between them. So Michael just said "oh" and hoped his smile didn't crack.

Calum just grinned on with his eyes a little glassy, pulling a swig of beer from his bottle and jostling the image when he reached to put the bottle down.

"So how's it going, bro?" He said, "You still haven't given me the grand tour."

On cue, Michael looked around the living room. He'd moved in with Geordie about a month prior after weeks of begging him to move in to help with the bills. It was a cramped, dated little apartment that got too hot quickly even with just two of them, and the fan in his room sounded like it was going to make a break for it and detach itself from the ceiling, but out of ideas and on a pitiful wage from the job he'd found himself at the record store, he didn't have a good enough reason to say no. Plus, this way he could pretend he had his life together, and that stopped his mother worrying about him.

He turned the camera round on his phone to capture the TV in the corner. "That's where I play FIFA." He said, flipping the image over to the kitchen to settle on the tiny fridge, "and that's where we keep the beer."

"Nice place you got there."

"We like to think so."

And that was about it; Michael tried to pretend it didn't bother him, when Calum's smile pulled the crinkles by his eyes and his laugh rang loud through the speakers, but still got pulled away by his drunken friends into the cold London night and left Michael staring blankly at the empty screen long after Calum had hung up. Lately, all he got was rushed video calls and snapshots of his friends' lives shared over Facebook profiles.

There was a pressure building at the base of Michael's skull. Sometimes it reached in to hide behind his eyes when the light filtered into his bedroom before work, or when Geordie looked at him like she could see right through him. It left him with vines around his chest late at night, hands shaking and eyes wet.

Mostly, he just felt like his wasn't really there, a ghost wandering the floors of his apartment. At times, Michael considered seeing someone about the way he felt like his distant dreams had crept through the cracks to his conscious mind. Occasionally, he found himself doubting if he was really anywhere in reality at all, caught in a hazy feeling of deja-vu as he traipsed from home to work and back again. Rinse, repeat.

He fell asleep to the sound of Luke singing every night. A new video uploaded on YouTube every week. Remember to like and subscribe - hope you enjoy. Callused fingers slipping easily over guitar strings and voice rasping and Michael stretched too thin. Last night, Geordie had paused in his doorway as he'd replayed the video for the seventeenth time. She'd seen him cracked and small in the ocean of his bed and he had screamed at her to 'get the fuck out'.

He'd plucked the darkness from his chest and left a plate of toast and tea at her bedroom door soon after, somehow found himself heaving against her chest as they sat in the hallway, and he'd wanted to tear his fingernails through his own chest when she placed feather-light kisses to his bleached hair.

As always, she never mentioned Michaels little episodes, instead opting to place a steaming mug of coffee by his feet where they rested on the coffee table when he finally accepted that Calum wasn't calling him back and put his phone down. Michael watched her bustle about the tiny kitchen, pulling milk and oats to the countertop and pushing her hair over the collar of her white work blouse.

Geordie looked up at him, drizzling honey over the top of her breakfast. "So Luke's back for the weekend for his Mum's birthday."

Michael's chest gave an uncomfortable little squeeze as he laughed, wondering how long it would take for him to start coughing up blood. All that Michael knew of Luke nowadays was of him filmed sitting on a barstool with guitar in hand, or in the shadowed corner of an anonymous bedroom with a flock of rumpled blue bedsheets as his backdrop as he sang softly to the camera. Michael had been blocked from all of Luke's social media accounts at some point.

"Maybe you should message him." Geordie was saying, an island between her and Michael as she threw him a life ring. "It might do good to talk."

He didn't know if it was all at once or a gradual thing, but Luke had faded since that day in Michael's house; his calls went unanswered and texts left on read and Michael had given up after a few weeks when all he could do was leave a empty, silent voicemail that was thirty seconds long.

"I think he's made it pretty fucking clear that he's not interested."

With pursed lips, Geordie simply stared at him before moving to clutch at her house keys. Michael stood up with his back towards her, hoping it didn't look like he was sulking, and wished her a good day over his shoulder as he wandered to the shower.

The little galaxy on his wrist burned as he stripped down and he felt stranded, desperately struggling to stay calm as anxiety crawled inside his chest. There was no solace in the shore here. The shadows branded into the thin skin of his wrist only brought him loss. He felt nothing bur stupid, having hoped that Luke could be his, there'd never been anything worth him staying for by morning. This scar had brought no good since it appeared. He could hear the thunder in his chest but felt detached as the water from the shower hit the bottom of the bathtub. Michael didn't even know which tap he'd turned on, didn't even think to care, he just wanted his skin clean, wanted to peel it off his body, wanted to not exist inside of it for a while. He'd been fine until the sky collapsed on him.

Turned out, it wasn't long until the message came. Michael hadn't considered the possibility of seeing Luke's contact flash up on his screen, but when he fished his phone from the bottom of his bag after his shift at the store, that's exactly what he found.

_Hey man, having a bbq for mums bday tomorrow. Come over at 6. She'd like it if you were there._

There was a strange swooping in Michael's stomach as he read and re-read the message. He typed something out and reached to place his phone on the bed with his feet rooted in the soft pile of the carpet.

He supposed he'd had it wrong all along. With his soul scar, Michael was nothing more than a warm body to beat the loneliness; a childhood friend to have around at a barbecue. The realisation was a sucking sort of sadness that pulled his ribs back through his spine as he pressed his nails into the skin of his wrist, bringing crescent moons to the constellation of soul scars.

A sudden yearning curled low in his chest, as it had a few times before, completely foreign to the longing for a familiar hand to hold. It stoked a strange, white-noise craving for silver lines turning scarlet, which morphed into a clear, vibrant desire to get out, get out, get out.

With the pressure building in his chest and his skull, his pale fingers found the plastic casing of one of Geordie's new razors in the bathroom cabinet, easily popped the metal blades out with a clink into the sink, drew one deep with meticulous fingers, deep enough to pull nausea up his throat as adrenaline fizzed through his body. He drew deep again. Again. Next arm. Again.

There was no fanfare as blood spread to the surface of his pale skin, he just felt faintly sick, knowing that he shouldn't but just wanting it out, wanting it gone, wanting a clean expanse of skin unmarred by an inky galaxy. Roses began to bloom along his arms, winding thorned stalks around his chest to dig their bloodied roots into the ground. Their petals opened, pulling Michael in as they grew and grew, sucking the light from his skin as they flourished.

Luke had always liked roses, liked to pick out images to one day have inked into his skin. Michael wondered if he'd like these ones, the ones he was printing with his fingertips onto the countertop and the doorframe - would like them more than tiny constellations. Flowers opened along the carpet as he took himself to the bedroom, they dotted his bedsheets as he grabbed for his phone with shaking hands and now he just wanted Luke here and he wanted all the flowers gone because there were too many and he wanted Luke and the roses were too big when he wiped his arms on his thighs.

When he dialled Luke's number, it went to voicemail.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Let me know what you think.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for self harm, anxiety, hospitals. 
> 
> I made myself anxious writing this. Alright, here we go.

Michael was an island in the middle of his bedroom, swaddled in waves of dark bedsheets where he pressed them to his arms. His skin burned like embers as he stared at the rusty flowers on his carpet and littering the hallway. 

Michael sat and sobbed with an aching chest and pounding head. His phone lay feet from him, it's screen dark and vacant, though he knew it was still recording what could be the world's longest voicemail. He'd managed to stem most of the flow from his arms, though some of the cuts bled a little in fits and starts if he moved too quickly. It was his constellations that suffered the worst - carved out of his wrist in shaky lines like they'd been banished from the skies. So far he'd been unable to stop the bleeding, watching it bead up as soon as he pulled the fabric from his skin. He was too afraid to let go of his arm and reach for his phone, he remained stranded by his bed, shaky and sick. 

Footsteps echoed from the bathroom as Geordie's voice rang out, high and off-kilter in a way he'd never heard it. "Oh my god - Mike?!" Her shadow appeared in the door, the hall light framing her like a halo in the dark. 

"Michael - fuck, what happened?" She said, lurching her way towards him to tilt his head up with her cold hands on his face. 

With panic alight in his chest, Michael tried to shuffle backwards, face smeared with tears and snot and probably spit from where he'd sobbed over his ruined arms.  
"I'm sorry - I want Luke I want -" he croaked, letting Geordie take his hands gently, cringing when she pulled the fabric back to reveal his bare arms, skin rusted and little black constellations scored through with scarlet. 

Geordie exhaled shakily, looking instantly much younger. "Okay," she said, "it's okay, Mike."

"No. I didn't mean to - I just want Luke-" Michael rambled, hearing himself from somewhere outside of his body and vaguely knowing what he was trying to say. "I want Luke and he won't answer... I just wanted it out so he'd want me,"

Geordie frowned, fingers tightening a little on his arm. "It's alright," she whispered, "just let me see. We'll get Luke."

He ached down to his bones, feeling as if his hollow chest was sprouting thorns that wound beneath his ribs. He shook his head, brain rattling around inside from dehydration and making the room tilt on its axis. 

Peeling the fabric back completely, Michael pushed his bleeding wrist closer to Geordie, smearing the blood away with the heel of his hand impatiently to show his soul scar. 

"He won't want me with this." He whispered hoarsely. "I wanted it gone so he'd want me, but it won't stop bleeding and Luke won't answer his phone and..."

Geordie said nothing, understanding lining her face as she glanced from the phone on the floor back to Michael's wrist. She pressed his sheet back to his skin, pulling him in sideways to wrap one arm around him as he heaved and sobbed, an ugly, grating sound that tore out of him. She didn't seem to mind, pressing kisses to his temple before she murmured for him to stay and disappeared downstairs. She returned with an armful of gauze and tape, with Michaels shoes in hand. There was a small smear of Michael's blood on her forehead where her light hair was escaping her bun, stuck with sweat. 

"We need to get this looked at." She explained, replacing the bedsheets swathing his wrist with gauze wrapped by gentle fingers. Little flowers dotted along the white soon after she'd taped it neatly. "It might need a couple of stitches."

Michael nodded through his tears, choking out a gasp when she ran an antiseptic wipe along his arms as well, and passed him a soft blue hand towel. He sat like a child, small and frightened, as she pulled an old pair of converse onto his feet. He held his arms out when she brought him a hoodie, scrunching up the sleeves so he could push his hands through easily like his mum did when he was a kid. 

She scooped up his phone, silently ending the call before placing it in his sweater pocket. She pulled him upright, out of the shadowed doorway and past the bloodied bathroom, out of the apartment with an unwavering grip on his hand. 

"I wasn't trying to do anything to really hurt myself," Michael told her as she walked him to her car, whispering in the dark, "just want him to want me."

Geordie just nodded her head and started the ignition. 

The stark lights of the room were hurting his eyes as Michael sat on the hospital bed, the paper rustling beneath his thighs. It was quiet as his nurse, Caitlin, stitched up his arm, murmuring intermittently about how it'd be over soon. Michael just felt cold and small, barely listening when he was advised to seek counselling but took the brightly coloured leaflets in hand and hoped he was nodding his head in all the right places. It burned behind his eyes and in his throat when Caitlin assured him with a smile that his soul-mark would likely be fine in a few weeks; they tended to heal over well. 

She wiped his skin clean a final time with delicate, practised hands, content to let Michael sit in silence. Tears burned anew when he stole a glance at his wrists as Caitlin turned her back to grab his dressing. Poking out from behind torn skin and tiny stitches were his constellations, still etched into his pale skin as solidly as stars in night skies. 

A familiar swooping sensation settled in his chest, sucking and hollow; Michael felt suddenly tired down to his bones. 

"I'm more than happy to listen," Caitlin said. Michael watched her put the dressing down next to him, seating herself back down and placing a hand next to his leg on the bed, "if you want to talk about it."

Michael felt sick at the thought. He felt sick at a lot of things - at the voicemail waiting for Luke's deaf ears, at the playlist of Luke's songs that waited for Michael every night, at the notion that Luke could never be meant for him, even though Michael's chest ached for it. 

"No," Michael sniffed, pulling his sleeve over his hand to wipe absently at his nose. "It was a mistake, I'm okay."

He declined the option to make an outpatients appointment with a therapist when Caitlin walked him to the reception desk in the waiting room. He hoped that Geordie didn't hear; she had disappeared down the hall as Caitlin wished Michael well. She handed him fresh bandages before leaving to finish her shift. When Geordie returned with tiredness pulling her expression down, she looked tense, pocketing her phone quickly as she reached for Michael's hand. 

"Are you okay?" She asked. 

"I'm okay."

"Okay."

Michael snorted, giving Geordie's hand a gentle squeeze but letting go as they headed quietly towards the exit. The drive back home was awkward; Michael didn't know what to say to her that he hadn't already. He doubted his head made much sense anyway, not when he kept swinging back round to wondering what Luke would think of him now. 

He climbed out of the car before Geordie had even shut the engine off, loping slowly inside the building to his front door. There was a figure at the foot of it, leant up against the wall with their head held in lightly shaking hands. The figure looked up, launching themselves to their feet before smashing full bodied into Michael. Cold fingers found the back of his neck, pulling him close, the other arm wrapping securely around his ribs to leach the warmth from his skin. 

"Shit Mikey, what the fuck were you thinking?" Luke said, pulling back to breathe the words against Michael's cheek. His lips followed, pressing small, dry kisses to the space next to his ear, his cheekbone, the corner of his lips. 

With that, Michael pulled away. He reached for the door handle with teary eyes and willed himself not to throw up on the floor. He clicked the key in the lock and let Geordie in before him, to find Luke looking like a deer in headlights in the hallway. Michael turned without a word, leaving the door wide open while his feet paced the marathon to the couch. He folded himself down onto it, facing away from the world and pressing his face into the back cushions.

Luke padded up to him, quietly sliding in next to him, legs wrapping like vines around Michael's and chest pressed flush with Michael's shoulder blades. His lips swept over any piece of Michael he could reach, leaving touches like breadcrumb trails along him to find in the morning. 

There was an ocean of words that needed saying but Michael felt for all the world like the sky was falling on his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this was okay. Thank you if you stayed until the end of the chapter.  
> Stay tuned.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second chances won't leave you alone

Michael awoke to the soft click of keys in the lock and retreating footsteps in the hallway beyond the door. It was still early; the sunlight filtering into the living room was hazy and the noise of the city outside was quiet. He closed his eyes tight, pushing until he could feel his eyelashes spike his skin; when he reopened them, they still felt scratchy with too little sleep and he noted dully that his mouth was dry and his arms throbbed. There was a deep cavity inside his chest that swooped like he was falling if he drew in too deep of a breath. 

Mostly, Michael was aware of Luke's body pressed against his back, his little breaths pooling against his skin and his stubble scratching where Michael's shoulder curved to meet his neck. With his arm strung across Michael's chest, keeping him locked in close, Luke's cold toes were pressed against his pale calf and he could feel the chill pull goosebumps across his skin. Michael didn't mind much. He didn't ever want to move from his spot, cushioned between Luke and the sofa; hidden away. Just for a moment everything felt alright, blanketed by a haziness that seemed familiar, but it didn't last long before last night's events replayed like a damaged VHS on fast forward. He remembered sitting in his bedroom floor, staring at his scarlet hands as the voicemail to Luke's phone played on. He remembered the panic on Geordie's pale face and the clinical, knowing look in the nurse's eyes when he was lead with a hand between his shoulder blades to a hospital bay. 

And Luke. He remembered Luke slumped against the front door with bloodshot eyes and raw lips. Luke, who didn't stop shaking as he kissed Michael's bandaged wrists. Luke, who promised that he'd help Michael get better although at this point Michael didn't know what better looked like. He didn't look forward to the conversations he knew were to follow. 

He managed to avoid talking about it at all throughout the morning. Convincing Luke was easy, he seemed to take one look at whatever was showing on Michael's face and decided against pushing him. They remained huddled up on the sofa for hours where Michael could press his face up against Luke's neck and pretend the world wasn't pressing in from the other side of the window, until Luke mumbled something about having to go see his mum. Michael's head was too fuzzy to worry about whether Luke was lying about coming back later, and before long Luke was scratching his nails lightly along Michael's scalp as he rolled off the sofa with a soft kiss to his temple. 

"I'll just go for a bit," he promised, "be back soon."

Michael felt his smile stretch the skin of his lips uncomfortably. "I'll wait here." He said, watching as Luke hovered awkwardly near the door before nodding at something. He turned to leave without another word. 

With the television playing in the living room, Michael tumbled gracelessly from the sofa cushions and made his way to shower, his feet padding loudly over the cold tiles. Across the hallway, he glimpsed his bedroom door wide open. Someone had stripped the sheets from his bed and fitted fresh ones, and towels lined the floor where Geordie had found him last night, but he flung the bathroom door shut before he could stop to look. 

The thoughts in his head rinsed down the drain where he stood, letting the steam from his shower cloud the room as he tried to process what he would say to Luke when the questions came. He felt unable to grasp onto anything for too long with a mind so full of half-formed memories from the previous night and from all those months ago when Luke used to be on his knees with honeyed lips and drunken kisses. He had no way to explain this to Luke without showing him the bloody remains of his soul scar, and the idea of doing that on purpose made him feel sick with fear. 

Luke wasn't going to understand when Michael told him this was just to get rid of his soul scar. Because the bottom line of it all was that he wanted Luke to want him and he wouldn't want him if he had a soul scar. 

With a moment of unwelcome clarity, Michael shut off the water so violently he worried he'd broken the tap. Though his heart had begun beating through his ribcage, he refused to think of anything other than drying himself and walked to the bedroom with his head down so he could see nothing but his feet. 

He pulled on a pair of sweatpants left at the bottom of the wardrobe and the largest hoodie he could find. Pulling the sleeves down to completely cover his hands, it drowned him; he suspected it might be Luke's, and shuffled back to the kitchen. Intending to get a glass of water to alleviate the ache behind his eyes, he found Luke pouring black coffee into a cup before dumping too much sugar into it, instead. 

"Thought you were at your mum's." Michael said, "that was quick."

Luke gave him a strange, lingering look. "I've been gone a few hours, but I told you I'd be back; Mum told me to make sure you're ok, anyway. And I'm ordered to give you a big hug."

Michael lowered his eyes at Luke's tight smile, as inky shame flooded his chest and made his stomach turn, wondering what Liz must think of him and guilty over pulling Luke away from his mother's birthday celebration. 

He cleared his throat, "does she know what happened last night?"

Luke hesitated and bit the inside of his cheek, running a finger along the edge of his coffee cup. "She saw me lose my shit when I played your messages. But no, I haven't told her yet." He said, "didn't think you'd want me to."

"Thanks," Michael croaked, 'that's - thanks."

"Mum's worried about you though," Luke continued, eyeing him with something that made Michael's stomach sink like a stone. Then, in a voice so quiet: "I'm really worried about you."

The "I'm fine," that left Michael's lips was purely impulsive and hung in the air like an echo.

Luke flinched as if burned, defeat pressing his shoulders down as his gaze travelled Michael's torso and back up again. He let out a breath of laughter so dark it bubbled like tar in his chest. "Sure," he replied, raising a brow. "When was the last time you ate, Mikey?"

"Yesterday. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner; would you like to know what I ate as well?" Michael fired back, with shoulders set and defensiveness pulling his chin up. 

"Well you've become fucking skin and bones since I've been gone-"

"Well you can fuck off back to Melbourne with a clear conscience because this is my problem, not yours. I'm fine!"

Luke threw his hand up, "Mikey, you hurt yourself last night and you fucking called me so how the fuck is that not my problem?" 

There was a beat of silence as Luke raised his hands to cover his face.  
"Do you remember what you said in those messages last night?" He said, the sound muffled through his hands. 

Michael stayed silent with sticky words lodged in his throat. He didn't even know where to begin, but it didn't matter because Luke had already stalked off to the living room with too much energy buzzing through his frame. 

He curled himself up in the armchair with one socked foot tucked beneath his thigh, looking so much like a tiny bird stuck on the ground that Michael felt like he circled above him with pitch black wings spread wide. 

He stood and stared down at Luke, jaw locked and a flood of anxiety rising in his chest. He didn't know what to say to fix this, running through everything he might have said last night just so he could stop Luke from looking so lost. He'd never wanted a soul scar or some faceless person off in the distance. If holding tiny stars at the edge of his palm meant he couldn't have Luke then he didn't want any of them. 

"I know you don't want to talk about it; but you have to, Mikey, please." Luke whispered. "You said last night you were trying to cut the stars out your wrist... I just wanna help you."

Michael flopped down on the sofa, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his sleeves over his knuckles. He took a deep breath, and another, swallowing past the hot wash of shame until he felt brave. 

"I just wanted them gone. I know you saw my scar that night before you left for Melbourne and I know that's why you never spoke to me after," Michael said, holding up a hand when Luke went to protest. "Don't lie; you wouldn't have needed to see me again if last night didn't happen."

Luke looked sick, the colour in his face drained to grey in a heartbeat as he bolted upright. "Please don't say that's why you hurt yourself!"

"God - I just... I wanted..." Michael floundered and fell silent. 

"Babe, you can tell me,"

"I thought - I thought that if I had a soul scar you wouldn't want me, and when I found mine I didn't wanna have to lose you. And we were just getting somewhere before you saw my scar... but then it all went to shit. I don't want anyone else. I just want you and I can't have you if I have this thing on my skin and I'm not dealing with that very well, I guess. But last night I just wanted to get it out my skin, that's all, I swear."

With bones shaking so hard he felt he might fall apart, Michael sat and tried to draw breath. He stared with teary eyes at the carpet, skin prickling hot and cold as Luke moved forwards.  
Maybe Michael had never made it up off the concrete that night the stars came down in his mum's driveway. He'd clawed and and scraped the earth towards him until his fingernails bled and he'd raked it all inside his chest until it was filling up with leaves and dirt; roots wound down between his ribs and through him until they reached deep into the ground again. He'd been lying there ever since, watching crimson petals unfurl beneath his skin. 

"I didn't mean for this to happen. I'm sorry."

He didn't realise he was sobbing until Luke wrapped him up in his arms, gently stroking his hair and shushing him softly. "Baby it's okay, it'll be okay."

Michael just clung tightly to Luke's waist and cried. "I just wanted you to wanted you to want me back."

"No, I do, Mikey. I do, I'm so sorry." Luke began quietly, carefully like Michael was an injured animal. "But you can't do this to yourself; I think we should try to get you some help - someone to talk to. Would that be okay?"

"I don't know,"

Luke kissed his cheek, peppering little touches of his lips along his skin, "that's okay, baby. Just think about it, please?" 

Michael nodded, using his sleeves to try to dry his face as Luke hugged him tighter. He tried to squash the dark little voice that told him Luke wouldn't be here if it wasn't over sickly guilt, but his wrists itched and his stomach ached when he tried to focus on the feeling of Luke's cold fingers pressed into his bare waist underneath his hoodie. 

"Shh, I've got you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to anyone still out there. Thank you so much for reading, any feedback is greatly appreciated. Hope you enjoyed.


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